


Neighborhood of the Titans

by Untherius



Category: Clash of the Titans (2010), Mister Rogers' Neighborhood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A normally routine trip to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe goes awry, sending Fred Rogers on an odyssey that will push the limits of his own credulity and perhaps of causality itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to an artist friend, Elizabeth, who specifically asked me to write a story combining these fandoms.

“Won't you be my neighbor?” Mr. Rogers finished tying his indoor shoes and stood up. He returned to his entry closet and pulled out a duffel bag.

“I have something to show you,” he said as he unzipped it. “It's old...very old.” He pulled several large bundles out of the bag. Each was wrapped in cotton muslin and made a muffled, metallic sound. Mr. Rogers carefully unwrapped each one and laid it all out on his coffee table.

“This, boys and girls, is a full suit of Bronze Age armor from southern Macedonia. That's part of greater Greece. See, my great, great, great, great...well, lots of greats...grandfather once wore something like this. Way back in two thousand BC, this is the sort of armor warriors wore in battle. Metals were an alloy of copper and tin called bronze.” Mr. Rogers picked up a willow-blade sword and took a few skillful swings with it, finally holding a dramatic pose. He held the sword aloft and the light glinted off it. “This particular sword was one of the first pieces forged after my many-greats grandfather solved the Riddle of Steel. It's in curiously remarkable condition. Beautiful, isn't it?”

A knock sounded at the door. “Now, I wonder who that could be.”

Mr. Rogers walked toward the front door and peeked out the small window next to it. “Well, it's Mister McFeely.” Mr. Rogers opened the door.

“Whoa, there,” said Mr. McFeely, looking at the sword.

“Oh,” laughed Mr. Rogers. “I was just showing off a few pieces of Bronze Age Greek armor.”

“That's a beauty, alright.”

“Isn't it, though?”

“Oh, here,” said Mr. McFeely, handing Mr. Rogers a package.

“Thank-you.”

“You're welcome.”

Mr. Rogers closed the door and returned to the coffee table. “Well, I wonder what this is. Let's open it.”

He undid the twine wrapped twice around the parcel, then unfolded several layers of shipping paper. Mr. Rogers frowned. Beneath the modern heavy paper was some brittle, yellowed material. “It looks like parchment...that's very old paper.” His frown deepened. “No...it's...vellum. That's...no, I don't think you want to know. Ask your parents. Or go to the library.” He peered at it. “There's a wax seal on it. But I don't recognize the markings.” He looked up. “This could be very dangerous. A lot of very old things sealed in this way are.”

Mr. Rogers peered at it again. He was drawn to it and in a way that defied comprehension. It seemed to be calling to him just beneath the registry of human hearing. Without regard to who might be watching, he broke the seal and unfolded the vellum. It crinkled and crackled, small pieces of it flaking off.

“This is old,” he said. “Very old. This has not been opened in a very, very long time.”

Inside was what looked like a book. It was bound in very old and worn, but well-oiled, leather. It looked like it had once had fur on it, but that had long since worn off. Bits of sinew cording showed through thin places along the spine where it was bound. Mr. Rogers knew he should be wearing cotton gloves when handling something like that, but he was so drawn to it that he forgot himself.

He opened the cover, which was thick, but surprisingly light. The leather wrapped around an inch on the inside and seemed to be fixed with some sort of glue.

“You see?” said Mr. Rogers, holding up the book and pointing to the inside. “Someone knew what they were doing. They wiped off the excess glue used to fix the leather to the cover.”

He glanced at the first page. “It's in Greek,” he said. “No, wait...” He peered at it. “It's in the Greek alphabet, but...but it's not Greek. I studied it a little in college, you know. This appears to be a title page.” He held it up again. “Rather ominous-looking, don't you think?”

He turned the page. It didn't feel like paper, nor did it feel like vellum, though it was something very close to that. “I think it's some kind of parchment. That's very similar to vellum, though there's something odd about this. Could be nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively.

The writing on the following page took up the full sheet. It, like the title page, was some other language written in the Greek alphabet. Mr. Rogers stared at it for a full minute, then read it aloud. The phonology sounded dark and menacing. When he'd finished annunciating the final word, he felt a strange breeze—at once cold and hot--pass through the room. He shivered reflexively, despite wearing one of his patented sweaters. He closed the book and lay it on the table.

“Well,” he said, “that's enough of that.” He still felt like someone had walked across his grave, though he tried not to let it show.

“I know, let's go to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, shall we?”

He strolled across the room and past his aquarium. He picked up a small cannister of fish food and deftly sprinkled a little of its contents onto the water's surface. “There you go, little guys.”

He walked the rest of the way across the room to where the Trolley would take them to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. It was already there. “What have we here?” He pulled a slip of paper from the Trolley and unfolded it. “It's from Daniel Tiger. It says...” Mr. Rogers frowned. “It says, 'Put your mother on a horse and pound your ankle through slot B?' That doesn't make any sense.”

Mr. Rogers frowned, then his face lit up. “Maybe it's a cipher! That's a kind of code. I wonder what unlocks it.” On a whim, he held it up to the light. At first, he didn't see anything. Then a pattern appeared. It was a series of paw prints made by areas where the paper seemed to be either thinner, or locally soaked in some liquid and then dried.

“Interesting,” said Mr. Rogers. Then he realized what was on the paper. “Yes,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the agitation out of his voice, “I think we'd better go talk to Daniel.” He turned around. “Trolley? Please take us to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.”

The Trolley made a cheery ding-ding, then began to move. Just before it entered the tunnel, the ground began to shake. It was subtle at first, then progressively strengthened. A wind rose from what seemed like nowhere and everywhere and felt both hot and cold at the same time. A low rumble—a sound not caused by the shaking, but nonetheless somehow related to it—rose to fill the air. It grew louder and higher until it resembled an eagle's skee combined with something porcine. It made Mr. Rogers' skin crawl. The room dimmed, began to rotate, then everything seemed to fold in on itself. Suddenly, everything went dark. Mr. Rogers fell, and kept falling, for some time and he couldn't be sure if a few moments or days passed as time itself seemed to lose meaning. Then his consciousness slipped from him.


	2. Chapter 2

Fred Rogers awoke to the distant sound of ocean surf. The smell of dirt filled his nose. He opened his eyes and found himself lying face-down on brown, rocky soil. He groaned, rolled over, and sat up, blinking in the bright sunlight. What the heck had happened?

The tang of salty air drove the vague iron mustiness from his nostrils. He picked himself up off the ground and brushed at the dirt clinging to his clothing, the attempt leaving brown smudges all over the fabric. 

He gazed across a small bay at a rocky point that he judged to be a little over a quarter mile away. On its end stood a huge statue of a man struck in a dramatically athletic pose and holding what looked like a stylized thunderbolt in one hand. More than two dozen figures milled about the statue's feet.

A modest, single-masted boat drifted across the water just off the base of the cliff that rose from the sea up to the statue.

A loud cracking sound drifted across the breeze. It sounded like it came from the statue, but Rogers couldn't be sure. The cracking sounded again and the statue shifted outward toward the sea. He heard muffled cheering.

Then the whole thing tipped over. It pivoted on its ankles, the cracking sound growing louder, then toppled into the sea. Its impact threw a great wave of water outward, nearly swamping the boat.

Suddenly, scores of flying things hurtled out of the sea. They were too far away for Rogers to see clearly, though they appeared to have large, bat-shaped wings. They flew upward at astonishing speed and proceeded to attack the people standing where the statue had been. After several minutes of screaming and chaos, the flying creatures came together into what looked like a cloud of smoke that had appeared out of nowhere. Or perhaps it had emanated from the creatures. Rogers couldn't be sure. Then the cloud coalesced into a giant person—or, rather, its head and shoulders. It gazed down at the boat, then promptly plunged downward, changing form again into a large fireball. It hit the vessel squarely amidships, throwing up an even larger wave. Then all was still.

Rogers stood there for what felt like forever, but was probably less than a minute, just staring at the wreckage.

“Where am I?” thought Rogers out loud.

“I think better question,” said a deep, male, heavily Russian-accented voice, “is when are we?”

Rogers spun around to come almost face-to-face with a large tiger. He stumbled backward three paces, tripped, and sprawled onto his backside. The tiger took a few steps toward him and Rogers scooted frantically backward. His hand brushed something colder and harder than the rock. He glanced over and recognized the steel sword he'd been showing off for the children earlier. He grabbed it and pointed it at the tiger, which stopped.

The tiger cocked its head quizzically, then sat back on its haunches. “You are strange, Fred Rogers,” it said.

Rogers blinked. Not only could the animal talk, but it knew Rogers' name. He kept the sword pointed at the tiger and the tiger continued to gaze at Rogers.

“I do not think you can hold that all day,” said the tiger.

“I can try,” said Rogers.

“Why?”

“You'll eat me.”

The tiger made a chuffing sound that sounded like it might have been a chuckle. “If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead already.”

“So why haven't you?” Rogers could barely believe he was holding a conversation with a tiger.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you're a tiger and that's what tigers do.”

“Then you do not understand us. Besides, I am friend.”

“That's impossible.”

“You do not recognize me, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

The tiger exhaled and held out its left paw. A watch clamped tightly around it.

“D...daniel?”

“How many tigers you know wear watch on paw?”

“But...that's impossible!”

“Would you mind?” said the Tiger, twitching its paw. “Is cutting off circulation.”

Fred blinked.

“Fine,” said the tiger. It sat back further, extended a claw from its right paw and, with a couple of well-placed tugs, cut the watch band. The offending time-piece fell onto the ground. The tiger shook its left paw. “There. Is better.” It rested both forepaws back onto the ground. “But does not answer question. When are we?”

“I have no idea,” said Rogers.

The tiger that claimed to be Daniel snorted. It looked over its right shoulder at something below them.

Rogers scrambled to his feet and took up a combat-ready stance.

The tiger looked back at Rogers. He could swear the big cat rolled its eyes at him. “Still with sword.”

“You claim to be Daniel. How do I know that?”

“Ask me question.”

“Why were you wearing a watch?”

“When live in clock with no hands, is important to know what time is.”

“Why are you not a puppet?”

“Was Neighborhood of Make-Believe, da?”

“What do you mean, _was_ Neighborhood of Make-Believe?”

“We are no longer there. Does this look like Neighborhood of Make-Believe to you?” Daniel gestured with a paw to their rocky surroundings.

“Why do you speak with a Russian accent?”

“I am Siberian.”

“I'll be damned,” said Rogers.

“I hope not,” said Daniel. “But if so, that may be more easy than you think.”

“Are you sure this isn't part of the Neighborhood of Make-Believe?”

Daniel shook his head. “Nyet. Is definitely _not_ Neighborhood of Make-Believe.”

“So where...and when...do you think we are?”

“No idea. You have bigger frontal lobe, da?”

Rogers gazed out across the strait. A few people trickled off the rock where the statute had stood. “Great,” he said. “I'm arguing with a tiger.”

“Is that problem?” said Daniel.

Rogers looked back at Daniel. “It's just...weird.”

Daniel peered back at Rogers and snorted.

“Now what?” Rogers asked.

“I was hoping you had idea.”

Rogers stepped to the edge of the cliff. “Well,” he said, “we could trudge down to that city...town...polis.” He pointed to a settlement built into a steep, rocky hillside at the inside of the bay. “Maybe they'll have answers.” He started walking.

“I think,” said Daniel, “you might want rest of that.”

Rogers turned and followed the line of Daniel's extended paw. His gaze rested upon the armor he remembered having pulled out of his closet. It lay strewn about, glinting in the sun. Rogers exhaled heavily. “Yeah. You're probably right.”

Rogers picked up each piece of armor and, with considerable difficulty, fitted it into place while Daniel watched. After what felt like too long, Rogers looked up. The tiger seemed to be amused.

“You really don't know how to wear armor, do you?” asked Daniel.

“Not so much, no. Not this kind anyway.”

Daniel snorted. “You should learn, da? Otherwise, I don't think they will take you seriously.”

“I have a tiger with me,” said Rogers. “I think they will.” He paused. “You...are joining me, aren't you?”

“What else will I do? Stay here and roll in catnip?”

Rogers looked around. “There's catnip here?”

Daniel chuffled. “You think I would sit here? Clearly you have not seen tigers with catnip. Is...embarrassing.”

Rogers finished with his armor. “What do you think?” he asked, spreading his arms wide.

“You look ridiculous.”

Rogers let his arms flop down at his sides with a dull clank. “Thanks.”

“You put on armor over sweater. You should...try to blend in, da?”

“I suppose. Won't I stick out anyway? After all, I'm traveling with a talking tiger.”

“I will be quiet.”

“Why?”

“I don't speak Greek.”

“How do you know we're in Greece?”

“Who else would build large statue of Zeus?”

Rogers frowned.

“I read books,” said Daniel in answer to Rogers' unasked question. “Now take off armor.”

“But I just got it on!”

“Da, and you you look like, how you say, schlemiel? Besides, if you want to pass as warrior, you will not convince anyone. Not even child from twenty-first century. Now take off armor.” Daniel accompanied the command with an impatient-looking paw gesture.

Rogers rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He returned his sword to its scabbard and proceeded to remove the armor. He found that to be far easier than donning it in the first place. When he'd finished, he spread his arms and said, “There. Are you happy now?”

“Nyet.”

“But...”

“You still look like schlemiel.”

“Do you even know what that is?”

“Does not matter. Point is, you look ridiculous. You will never pass for warrior. Now take off sweater.”

Rogers did so, revealing his long-sleeved, button-up shirt. “Better?”

“Slightly. Take off pants.”

Rogers' eyebrows rose involuntarily. “You want me to go about in my drawers?”

“Da. Take off of shirt, too.”

“You can't be serious.”

Daniel cocked his head. “First, is warm here, da? Second, how many Greeks wear clothing like yours?”

Rogers thought about that for a moment. “You have a point.”

“And you will complain from heat before long. I have heard you complain off-camera. Fortunately, not often. But still, is irritating. Don't make me swat you upside head.”

Rogers exhaled and stripped down to his drawers, grumbling the entire time. Again he extended his arms, clad only in sneakers, boxer shorts, and tank-top. “ _Now_ what do you think?”

Daniel cocked his head again. “Is better. You will not pass for Greek.”

“I won't?”

Daniel bent his head downward and smacked is own forehead with his paw in a curiously feline version of a face-palm. He groaned slightly. “First, still with clothing. Second, your skin is pasty white. Just say you are...Visigoth.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow.

“Pretend you are Conan Barbarian.”

Rogers tipped his head back and laughed.

“What?” asked Daniel once Rogers' laughter had subsided.

“You want me to pretend to be Conan the Barbarian? That's even more laughable than trying to be Greek.”

“Why?”

“First of all, Conan was from Cimmaria near the Caspian Sea. Second...”

“Nyet,” interrupted Daniel. “Robert Howard invented that. I think he borrowed name from real world. But outlander is outlander, da?”

“Oh, for the love of...okay, fine. Second, Conan was muscle-bound. I'm...not.”

Daniel gestured with a paw to Rogers' arms and legs. “You go to gym, da?”

Rogers looked at his own limbs. “Well, yeah, but...”

“It shows. Maybe you are not Schwarzenegger, but is no matter. And you still train in Eastern martial arts, da?”

“And in sword combat...and archery, but...”

“Then what is problem? Already have you that which you need. Now put armor back on.”

Rogers sighed, but complied. He had to admit he was much more comfortable now that he'd shed most of his clothing. “Well?”

“Is better. Now take armor off again.”

“But...”

“You need practice. Now take off armor and put back on again,” said Daniel insistently.

Rogers rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe he was being coached by a tiger about armor.

“I saw that. Don't make me swat you upside head.”

“Would that hurt?” asked Rogers as he dropped a vambrace on the ground.

“Da. And be more careful. Is bronze, da? And bronze is not like steel. Is old, too.”

Rogers had to concede that the tiger was right. The whole thing strained credulity. Maybe he was dreaming. If so, then maybe it didn't matter so much if he was having a conversation with a tiger about ancient Greek armor. Once he removed and then re-donned his armor, he again turned to Daniel.

“You improve,” said Daniel before Rogers had spoken a word. “A couple more times and maybe is good enough.”

Rogers removed and replaced his armor not two, but three more times. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that if I'm trying to pass for a Visigoth, I might not be too familiar with Greek armor. It would have been something I'd have taken off of a slain opponent. So maybe it doesn't matter so much if I'm awkward with it. Same with speaking Greek. I'm...a bit rusty with that as it is.”

Daniel grunted. “Is all true.” He turned his head over his shoulder, then looked back at Rogers and stood up. “We should go.”

Rogers stepped up beside Daniel, then paused. “Do I get to pet you?”

Daniel sighed. “If you must.”

Rogers petted Daniel on the head a few times. “You know how much I like furry animals, don't you?”

“Just...don't overdo.”

Rogers' stomach growled. “Um...”

Daniel looked at Rogers' mid-section. “Me, too.”

Rogers quickly removed his hand from Daniel's head and stepped back a pace.

“Relax,” said Daniel. “I won't eat you.” He scanned the sparse vegetation in front of them. “Now where is rabbit?”

Rogers chuckled. “Maybe we should take our chances at that polis down there?”

“Perhaps,” said Daniel. “But if I see rabbit...or hear...or smell...”

Rogers chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just don't go killing anyone's goat. I don't have any Greek currency.”

Daniel chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “I think we understand each other, da?”

“Da,” said Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, big cats DO like catnip. Don't believe me? See for yourself:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tklx3j7kgJY


	3. Chapter 3

Fred Rogers and Daniel Tiger stood on an exposed rocky ledge above a city nestled in the base of a sea inlet. He sighed, more from the mental and psychological weight than from the physical exertion of rock-climbing in full armor.

“It doesn't look any more promising from down here than it did from up there,” he said.

Daniel made an affirmative grunt. “And swallows not very filling, precious.”

Rogers groaned. “Are you going to stop with the Lord of the Rings references anytime soon?”

“Nyet.”

“I still don't see any good routes of egress.” He turned to look Daniel in the eyes. “You do realize that if we get into trouble, we're probably hosed.”

“Da.”

Rogers returned his attention to the city. “Well...from the look of it, I'd say we've landed somewhere between two thousand and twenty-five hundred B.C. So we can at least speak English with impunity.”

“Why?”

“Because English doesn't exist yet. And it won't for another...three thousand years...give or take.”

Daniel chuckled. “Is code, da?”

Rogers grinned at Daniel. “And we don't even have to make it up!” he said triumphantly. “We also know about science and technology that they won't. That could give us another edge, in addition to steel.” He patted his sheathed sword. “We also know what's going to happen.”

“Nyet. Half of what we know of history is wrong.”

Rogers grunted pensively. “True. And at this point, we know more about the long term anyway.” He stretched and limbered up. “No rest for the wicked.” He turned and resumed his descent.

After a while, they dropped from a low rooftop and stepped into what looked like the main city square. The whole place seemed in a state of squalor and general chaos. Soldiers bearing shields emblazoned with triskelions of serpents talked animatedly amongst themselves and another person shouted something above the din.

“What they saying?” Daniel asked.

“Apparently, that man...” Rogers nodded to a lean, close-shaven man sitting dejectedly on a pile of sacks. “...was pulled from some wreckage. And there's a general famine all over Greece. Which people are blaming on the gods.”

“Is absurd.”

“I agree. Yet that's what they think.” He looked at Daniel. “Are you sure you can learn Greek?”

“Nyet. But I try.”

“No. Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.”

Daniel groaned. “Still with nerd things.”

“Can't beat the classics. Let's go.” With that Rogers and Daniel stepped out and merged with the soldiers escorting the rescued man. Rogers wasn't quite sure where they were taking him or why, but it was all part of the plan. They were to blend in as best as they could. People were generally likely to ignore you if you went about your business as though you were supposed to be there. They were also more likely to acquire more information if they went to those in charge and falling in with soldiers was, in the ancient world, usually a pretty good way of doing that.

“You defy the gods and you will be punished!” cried the proselytizer at last.

“Is strange man,” said Daniel.

“Says the talking tiger,” Rogers said quietly as he and Daniel fell in behind the Argos soldiers. “You think this'll work?”

“Is your idea.”

They marched along columns, thorough a gate heavy with copper patina, and up more stairs to what Rogers figured to be the city palace he'd seen from the cliffs above.

At length, they entered a large, opulent room, decorated with marble, hammered gold, statuary, and wall paintings. A long, rectangular pool ran down the middle. Oil torches burned in large, bronze bowls, some of which hung suspended from the walls and some sitting atop smaller columns. In short, it was exactly what he expected an ancient Greek throne room to look like. He and Daniel dropped away from the other soldiers and stood at the very rear of the great room. He resisted the urge to lean casually against a nearby column.

“And now comes the posturing,” said Rogers quietly. Sure enough, King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia started in on some political nonsense about gods and man and temples. Rogers rolled his eyes.

“We are the gods now!” declared Cassiopeia at length.

That's curious, thought Rogers, and arrogant. No good will come of that. He still wasn't sure just what it was he'd seen at Paksos. Whatever it had been, it didn't bode well.

A harsh whisper filled the room. It seemed to echo out of the very stones themselves, or as though there were a Dolby sound system. Which was ridiculous. But the way it made all his hair stand on end wasn't.

Almost in response to the whisper, a breeze stirred and the room darkened, the torch flames turning an odd ice-blue color. Smoke like a serpent rose from the flames, moving like a living thing. It twined together like ropey sinews, spitting sparks.

Abruptly, the smoke began to spin. Every soldier in the room flew toward it, as though each man were plucked from the floor like a rabbit, and disappeared into it. The man Rogers had heard called Perseus merely slid along the polished stone as though holding against a very stiff wind. Rogers himself felt a tug, like something half-heartedly pulling on him. His adrenaline spiked.

The smoke coalesced into the same man Rogers had seen from the bluff earlier. Only now he had a better look. A receding hair-line, long hair falling from the top of his head, and intense, burning eyes all conspired to give him a decidedly dread-inspiring appearance, even without the long, flowing black robes he wore. His gazed fixed on Perseus. “Interesting,” he said.

Perseus bellowed in rage and rushed the dark man.

The dark man flung his arms wide. Sparks and soldiers' armor flew outward, the combined heat wave and flying objects knocking Perseus backward and onto the floor. Then he turned his attention to the thrones and glided, rather than strode, to the front of the room.

“You are specks of dust beneath our fingernails,” he said, his tone casually icy and dry. “Your very breath is a gift from Olympus. You have insulted powers beyond your comprehension.”

“Who are you?” asked Cepheus.

“I am Hades. Kneel!” Most in the room complied.

Rogers' eyes narrowed. He was an American, dammit, and Americans didn't kneel! No one noticed his lack of reverence. Everyone's attention seemed to be on Hades and Hades' attention on the Royals.

“What do you know of beauty?” continued Hades to Cassiopeia. “What is more beautiful than death? Gaze upon me, mortal queen.”

Hades' body hid the queen from Rogers' view, but the reactions of those closer to the front of the room told Rogers that something odd and frightening was happening.

“In ten days,” said Hades, “when the sun is eclipsed, I will unleash the kraken. Argos will be swept from the Earth and all of you with it. Unless you sacrifice the Princess you so foolishly compare to the gods. Only her blood will sake the kraken, and Zeus, who you have so offended. Choose your penance, Argos...destruction or sacrifice. This is the will of Zeus, the will of your father.”

With that, Hades dissolved back into smoke and vanished.

Rogers turned and walked from the building, Daniel on his heels. At length, he stopped behind a column and leaned against it. He exhaled heavily.

“Is bad,” said Daniel.

Rogers gave the tiger a sidelong glance. “Bad?” he said sarcastically. “You think?”

Daniel didn't flinch. “Hades bluffs.”

“You said you read books. How much have you read about Greek mythology?”

“Some.”

“That's a bit vague, my tri-chromatic friend.” Rogers looked skyward. “I always thought all this Greek gods stuff was nonsense. Bedtime stories of the ancient world. But now? Now I'm not sure about much of anything.”

“What will you do?”

Rogers considered the tiger's question. “I'm not sure,” he said at length. “But I do know we can't just let all these people die. We have to assume there is a kraken...or something. Even if there isn't, supporting the people is always a good idea. We may need them later.”

“Later? How long you think we will be here?”

“No idea. For all I know, long enough to get old and grey. Or sick...or injured. I have a feeling our fate is somehow tied to theirs.”

“Now what?”

“Now we wait. And find out what they plan to do...and help them do it.”

A couple of hours later, Rogers and Daniel again merged with the city guard. They'd apparently decided to undertake a quest of sorts. Perseus had it in for the gods and was going along, as near as Rogers could tell, to give them the shaft, as it were. But there was something else the fisherman hadn't said, something that suggested the whole thing was personal and on multiple levels.

A small band of mercenaries volunteered to join the quest. Rogers noted that they actually had to convince the Captain of the Guard, called Draco. Surely Draco was aware of just how many of his men had fallen. Surely he knew he needed every blade he could find. Rogers decided it was probably a cultural thing.

Still, the mercenaries' claims were odd...hydras, centaurs. People in ancient Greece really did believe that such things actually existed. Though after that episode in the throne room, Rogers was beginning to think that maybe they did.

Draco seemed to finally relent. “If you can keep up and don't mind dying, come along.”

“It is death who should be afraid of us,” said the lead mercenary.

Draco rolled his eyes. Rogers and Daniel fell in step behind the others. At least he was in company of plenty of others who supposedly knew how to fight.


	4. Chapter 4

Rogers took up the rear as the party made their way out of Argos, climbing up onto the rocky highlands, Daniel on his heels. All the while, he watched the others. He didn't know any of them from Adam, nor they him.

Draco had been right to a point, there were plenty of strangers. The Argos soldiers had trained and fought together. So had the mercenaries. But how would the three groups—Argosians, mercenaries, and Rogers and Daniel—fight as a unit? On the other hand, would they do that?

They kept a grueling pace across bare volcanic rock. Rogers stole the occasional upward glance. A shield volcano towered above them. Mt. Olympus? No, too close to the coast. He wished he'd paid more attention to Mediterranean geography. Wherever they were, they were heading northwest.

They forged onward with barely a rest in their aggressive pace. Rogers quickly realized just out of shape he really was. He exercised regularly, lifted weights, practiced martial arts, but he had nothing on the men in front of him—men who'd grown up with hard living, men like his own father who'd worked the steel foundries and his grandfather who'd been a life-long farmer.

“How are your paws holding up?” Rogers asked Daniel.

The big cat grunted. “Pads not meant for bare rock,” he said quietly. “But will live. And you?”

Rogers glanced down at his feet. His sneakers were already quite scuffed. They'd have had a lot of life left had they just been relegated to concrete or a basketball court. But on lava? He had it on good authority that long-distance backpackers routinely experienced greatly accelerated sole wear while hiking across lava rock, particularly in parts of the Oregon Cascades.

Another few hours took them over a ridge supporting scattered pines. The sun sank toward the horizon as they arced southwestward. Perseus stopped to gaze toward the lowering sun. Rogers hung back to watch him.

“Don't know,” said Daniel to Rogers' unasked question.

“Identity issues, I think,” said Rogers.

Perseus glanced at the both of them, but wordlessly returned his gaze westward.

Daniel cocked his head and Rogers continued quietly. “He has father issues and is wondering what the hell he's doing.”

Daniel shook his head slightly. “Humans,” he muttered.

Rogers chuckled softly as Perseus stalked off to follow the others.

They plunged off the ridge and a couple of hours later came to a low, heavily-forested bench. The greenery was lush, the underbrush sparse, and the forest floor thick with ferns.

“How far is it?” said one of the men.

“Four days to the witches,” said another.

“Four days? I'm tired already.”

Rogers could relate. For the last hour, he hardly dared so much as break pace for fear that if he were to stop at all, he wouldn't have been able to move until dawn.

At one point, Perseus snapped a sandal strap, drawing some ribbing from the soldiers. Rogers always hated that sort of thing, but he held his tongue, slowing down slightly. He knew it wouldn't be too long before his sneakers wore out and he'd need something like that himself. Unless he found a way back to his own time before then, of course. But that would mean figuring out how he'd made the trip in the first place.

“How are the paws?” he muttered quietly to Daniel.

“Better,” replied the tiger, “now that we walk in forest.”

With an hour of daylight remaining, the party sat around a small campfire. Rogers and Daniel sat back and watched. One man played a small wooden flute. After a couple of minutes, Solon held out his hand and the man handed him the flute. Solon snapped it in half and dropped it. The man picked up his pack, rummaged in it, then produced another, somewhat larger flute, which he proceeded to play. Several of the men snickered.

Rogers snickered, too. Still, he would never have done that on his show. He knew how hard and long one needed to practice at an instrument to be any good at it. He also knew how hard it was to craft one that made sound at all, let alone good sound. In any event, there was always some sort of visceral satisfaction with sticking it to the man.

A few moments later, Perseus returned with a large fish.

“You really are a fisherman,” said Kucuk

“You should have seen my father,” replied Perseus.

“You,” said Draco walking up and looking at Perseus, “bring your weapon.”

Perseus got up and followed, though reluctantly. Rogers was still unsure whether Perseus wanted to be on his quest, or if he was somehow compelled to do so. He certainly wasn't used to the military chain of command.

“Have you handled a sword before?” asked Draco.

“There's been no need,” said Perseus.

“I see. Left foot forward.” He took out his own sword and twirled it, Perseus following. “Your motions should be fluid. The weapon is part of you. Like the sting on a wasp. Stay focused. Know what's around you. Keep your balance at all times. You fall...”

Draco made a quick sweeping motion that drove Perseus to the ground. “...you die.”

Interesting. Combat philosophy and technique at once. That made a certain amount of sense, though. Teaching both at once was how he himself had learned. Plus, Draco was trying to bring Perseus up to speed in a compressed time-frame.

“Get up,” said Draco.

Almost without warning, Perseus bounced to his feet, leaning into an attack. Rogers watched intently as the two of them sparred. Their bronze blades whipped about, their bodies dodging to and fro. Any mistake could easily have been the last one either of them would have ever made.

Perseus was actually pretty good for never having wielded a blade. No, correction: he was _very_ good! Finally, after several minutes, Perseus gained the upper hand, not only disarming Draco, but flinging the blade from his hand so hard, it flew across the clearing and embedded itself in a tree with a malevolent vibration.

Perseus stopped, his blade at Draco's throat. Only then did he seem to realize what he could have just done.

“There's a god in you,” said Draco, almost casually. “Be sure you bring it.” He slowly and carefully pushed Perseus' blade away. “End of lesson.”

Draco walked off, leaving Perseus standing there, breathing heavily.

Rogers continued to ponder what he'd seen. He stole a glance at Daniel and wondered how tigers approached combat. What motivated a cat to violence? How did a feline perceive it? What was their experience? Was what went on inside a cat's head remotely close to what all the biologists said? He wondered if Daniel had read any of those books. These thoughts and others echoed in Rogers' mind until sleep eventually took him later that evening.


	5. Chapter 5

Fred Rogers awoke to the muffled sound of footsteps crunching on forest duff. He slowly opened his eyes, unsure how cautious he should be. The men had been whispering and muttering of all sorts of unseen dangers the entire previous day. Rogers had kept quiet, just listening. Some of what he heard sounded consistent with what he knew of the Bronze Age: feuding neighbors; bandits; lions. Other things were straight out of Greek mythology and still others he suspected had simply been lost to the mists of time. In short, he still wasn't entirely sure what to expect of the strange and ancient world in which he and his feline companion had found themselves.

Motion caught his peripheral vision. He slowly turned his head in time to see a figure disappear into the woods. Shortly, another, which he recognized as Draco, followed. Rogers had a feeling that things were about to hit the fan.

He slowly lifted his head, then froze. Something warm and...furry...pressed against his legs and arms. A low, rumbling sound emanated from behind him. He was instantly alert.

In a single swift, fluid move, he rolled away and onto his feet. His right arm tingled like he'd shoved it into a thicket of nettles. He ignored it, turning his attention instead to the large tiger.

The cat opened its eyes and raised its head. “You snore,” it said in its Russian accent.

Rogers relaxed, his memory returning to him. “Sorry,” he said.

Daniel stood up, yawned, and stretched, his great feline teeth and claws conspicuous in the dim, early morning light.

Rogers shuddered slightly.

“What?” asked Daniel, sitting back on his haunches.

Rogers took a couple of steps toward the tiger. “Still having trouble with the 'you're not a puppet' bit.”

Daniel grunted. “Silly human.”

“Uh-huh,” said Rogers dubiously. “You're funny-looking when you stretch.” He reached his arms over his head and stretched, several of his joints making loud cricking sounds.

“You, too,” said Daniel.

“Still talking to the cat, I see.”

Rogers turned to see Solon, an amused expression on his face. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, it's...odd.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow. “And what we're doing isn't?”

Solon chuckled. “It occurs to me, O Rogerse, that we still don't know much about you.” He turned casually and gestured to Draco.

Without breaking stride, the other man stalked toward Rogers. He recognized an aggressive posture when he saw one and moved into the attack. Draco drove a punch straight at Rogers' face. Rogers neatly deflected it, caught Draco's shoulder, and spun him away, sweeping a foot at the nearest leg. Draco tripped over his own foot and sprawled onto the ground.

He tucked, rolled, and bounced upright. “Not bad, Outlander, not bad.” He launched at Rogers, drawing his sword in the same motion.

Rogers ducked, grabbed for his own sword, then came up to meet Draco. The other man's second blow slid off Rogers' blade. Another thrust and sweep in the Greek's open style. Rogers easily evaded. Then he caught Draco's powerful overhand chop with his own blade. The steel ripped through the Greek bronze metal, sending the blade cartwheeling into the leaves. Rogers stopped his sword tip at Draco's throat.

“An exercise, yes?” said Rogers, slightly out of breath.

Daniel growled menacingly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said, “very interesting. There's a god in you, too.”

“Not so much, no.”

“Then you are the warrior you claim to be.” Draco backed off and retrieved his broken blade. “I would, however, be very interested to know how you managed that. Not just your fighting style, but that sword of yours. Steel, I believe you called it?”

“Yes,” said Rogers, turning to slide his sword back into its sheath, which still lay on the ground with the rest of his armor. Of all those present, only he had bothered to shed his for the night. He suspected his sleep had, as a consequence, been more restful than theirs put together. Though with the previous day's forced march, that might not have been saying much. At the very least, he was confident he'd awoken with far fewer kinks, tingles, and so on.

“I very much wish to know more about this...steel.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Draco grinned mischievously. “You owe me a sword, by the way.” He thrust the broken blade at Rogers.

Rogers took it and its hilt and peered at them incredulously.

“You broke it,” said Draco, “you'll fix it.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then Cepheus will have my head.” He leaned toward Rogers. “But not before I have yours.”

A scream cut through what passed for the morning calm. It sounded like...what was his name...Phaedrus, but Rogers wasn't sure. Everyone froze for a few moments. Then everyone quickly set off at a dead sprint.

Rogers spun, picked up his armor, and threw it on, as he went.

“Hobble faster, Outlander!” called one of the men over his shoulder.

Rogers grunted. He was beginning to understand why the Greeks slept in their armor. One or two of them had told him that one never knew when one would be called upon to leap to action at a moment's notice. He saw they'd been right. He made a mental note to do something about his under-armor and wished he'd actually brought his, rather than leaving it in his locker at the gym.

Rogers barged after the Greeks, his feet pounding the moist ground. Daniel trotted beside him.

“You humans,” he said. “So slow.” Daniel veered off the de facto trail made by the Argos soldiers and loped easily through the ferns.

Rogers changed his stride, forcing himself to take long, economical strides, letting his momentum assist his muscles. He pelted after the soldiers, laboring after them as they climbed out of the broad-leaved trees and into open pine woodland. The needles slipped beneath Rogers' feet. He shortened his stride to increase stability.

He paused just before the ridge crest, listening for threats. A blur of motion turned into Daniel. The tiger's fur glinted orange, black, and white in the morning sun. Rogers relaxed slightly and cocked his head.

“What?” said Daniel.

“You look like...the Lion King.”

Daniel snorted and flicked his tail. “Lions,” he scoffed. “All fluff, no...”

“Daniel,” said Rogers as he crested the ridge, “just take it as a compliment. In the meantime, I think someone's dying over there.”

“Over where?”

“Um....” Rogers looked around. “Wait...I'll find it in just a...”

“Is that way,” said Daniel, pointing with a paw.

“I knew that.”

Daniel groaned, then turned to lope downslope. “Follow sounds of slaughter,” called the tiger over his shoulder. Rogers started after him, flexing his knees as he practically surfed on the pine duff.

The noise of a battle drew closer, the grey pine trunks obscuring his view. Rogers drew his sword as he rounded a low wall of lava, skidding to a stop behind a small knot of Greeks. Rogers almost didn't see the several dead men who lay on the ground nearby.

His attention, like the weapons of the remaining Greeks, was focused on one man. He was tall and broad, his face appeared to have been burned long ago and his left hand was missing.

The man hissed and roared a savage defiance before spinning around and bolting away into the trees.

“Who was that?” asked Solon.

“I don't know,” said Perseus. “Let's ask him.” He lit out in pursuit of the strange man, snatching up a round shield on his way across the clearing.

The other men rolled their eyes, sheathed their swords, then took up the pursuit. Rogers had barely enough time to catch his breath.

“One man did all that?” said Rogers, as he took up the rear.

“Da,” said Daniel.

“No rest for the wicked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Rogerse' is the vocative case for a second-declension noun in Greek.


End file.
